


The Road Home

by chailover



Series: the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Nightmares, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:09:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2414429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chailover/pseuds/chailover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to I'll shut down the city lights: Steve and Bucky from California to New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Home

**Author's Note:**

> It's actually not necessary to read this if you liked where the previous story ended, this is just gratuitous fic on my part brought about by my own annoyance at all my dropped theme threads (which aren't actually all wrapped up still *facepalm*).

**

He still didn't remember everything, but he thought he might remember this.

A shuffle in the other bed, a rustling of the sheets, followed by a squeak of the springs and the pad of feet on the carpet. And then: "...Buck?"

"I'm awake," he said, because it was impossible to sleep when Steve Rogers was thinking so damn loud. He turned and glared at the foot of his bed crankily - there was just enough light filtering through the closed window to see Steve standing there with a sheepish but pained expression.

It wasn't as if he actually planned to sleep, but it would've been a nice, peaceful time to rest his eyes and center himself in preparation for traveling tomorrow. Hell, they hadn't even made it out of California, and if Steve really was going to turn down free air transportation, then there was a long drive ahead of them to get back to New York.

In another life, Captain America had given Bucky Barnes, fresh off Zola's lab table, the exact same beseeching look. "Can I...?"

At least in this life, they had queen sized beds instead of a standard army cot. "For crissakes, we're two grown men," Bucky repeated anyway, the cadences of the exchange the same whether it was 1944 or 2014. Prerequisite complaining done, he turned to face the window and gave Steve his back. 

Steve stripped the blankets from his own hotel bed and slid in behind him, shifting around until they were pressed back to back. He was like a furnace, and Bucky growled under his breath and flipped his own cover over, on top of Steve as revenge. Steve muffled a laugh against the pillow, but didn't retaliate.

The warmth and vague familiarity settled into his bones, made his eyes feel heavy. He was drifting off when he thought he heard Steve whisper, "please don't go again."

**

He knew - and it was one of the things that he didn't know he could remember until it came to him in a cascade - the last time Steve had said, "I dreamt you were dead."

He hadn't said anything then either, had let Steve think that he was asleep, the warmth and press of their bodies serving as proof of life.

**

Steve's phone was on the nightstand and projecting a hologram of Tony Stark when Bucky came out of the bathroom, about ready to leave. 

"Yeah, the fort's still holding, though I might've pissed off some senators the other day, what else is new?" Stark was saying, gesturing with a screwdriver. The image was only 2D, but it was crisp and didn't lag. He could even see one of Stark's robot arms moving a broom back and forth in the background. He was pretty sure normal Starkphones couldn't do that. "You sure you don't want the quinjet? Oh, hey there, Bandit."

Steve took out clean socks and zipped up his bag. Bucky waggled his metal fingers in greeting.

"Oh, hellloo there, gorgeous," Stark hammed, dark eyes immediately zeroing in on the prosthetic. Bucky rolled his eyes and took himself out of the camera's view, and Stark made an anguished noise. "No, come back, baby!"

"Better not let Potts hear you talk like that," Bucky called.

"Pepper is understanding of my vices," Stark yelled back. Steve was rolling his eyes so hard that Bucky was surprised they haven't fallen out of his head yet.

"Tony, we've got to check out now." Everyone was used to Stark - give him ten seconds, he'll talk for an hour. Steve grabbed the phone and waved pointedly with a "bye," before disconnecting the call.

**

Despite that, Jarvis let them in without a fuss when they showed up at Tony's rebuilt Malibu mansion. A cross-country roadtrip on a motorbike might sound exciting to a novice, but Bucky had no intention of spending days squashed onto a bike with Steve, exposed to the elements (and snipers), no matter how good of friends they were. He wasn't sure how Steve managed it by himself without getting mugged, (or sniped, he felt very strongly about that), or breaking down by the side of the road.

Bucky had acquired and discarded his own modes of transportation on the initial westward bound trip, and currently was in possession of a beat-up truck that was almost half of his actual age. He wasn't optimistic that it would make it out of the state, much less all the way to the East coast.

The AI directed them to the garage and politely recommended one of the giant black SUVs for their trip, in consideration of the amount of leg room they would need. Steve seemed to be unusually curious, peeking in under the hood and into the trunk/back seat area, smoothing his hands over the dashboard. Bucky also thought the car looked vaguely familiar, but there was no looking a gift horse in the mouth. If it did turn out to be riddled with bugs and trackers like he suspected, they can always ditch it and find something else.

**

Bucky never got confirmation on the bugs or trackers, but it was moot because the SUV looked familiar for the reason that it was a kinder, gentler cousin of the one Nick Fury was driving while Hydra hounded him across the streets of DC. Bugs and trackers can be tolerated for the military grade armored exterior and auto-everything, though the weapons were lacking.

"And flight capabilities!" Steve said, excited. "Flying cars, Buck!"

The AI (not Jarvis but something similar...Jarvis without a British accent, maybe) noted politely, "Vertical takeoff protocols are only enabled in a case of emergency."

"Yeah, pal," Bucky hoisted his bag into the back seat, "Emergencies only."

"I wonder if Tony'll let me fly one once we get back." Steve mused as he followed. Bucky rolled his eyes but didn't state the obvious 'of course'.

**

The third day, after spending a sleepless night feeling the weight of Steve's stare from the other bed, Bucky finally asked, "what took you so long?"

"Huh?" Steve asked, mouth half-full from a granola bar. They probably scared waitress at the local hole-in-the-wall diner with how much food they packed away for breakfast before they hit the road again, but Steve's stomach was apparently even more bottomless than his own.

"To find me. I mean, with the tracker and all." Bucky said, waving a hand along his metal arm.

"...what tracker?" Steve swallowed his snack. 

"The one in my arm?"

Steve was frowning now, but since he was driving, he could only shoot the occasional puzzled look at the passenger seat. "There is no tracker," he finally said, signaling as he changed lanes to pass a big rig.

"Right."

Steve stared at the road ahead. The path was pretty clear now that they were past the big trucks. "Tony had hacked into one of the suspected Hydra cells in Los Angeles and Jarvis flagged one of their notes about a weird glitch in their surveillance, the kind that shows up when someone's wearing the nano-mesh. They told me it was a long shot, but..."

Bucky decided to drop it for now - Steve was a terrible liar and it was obvious that he believed whatever BS Stark had told him about the lack of tracking devices. Even so, what he was saying now seemed like a viable alternative. "You sure you should be telling me this?" Bucky asked doubtfully, already considering some workarounds.

Steve's lips thinned. "Well, it depends on if you're planning to disappear again." Before he could get offended, Steve shook his head and sighed. "Sorry, that didn't come out right. What I meant was that no one's planning to stop you from leaving if you really wanted to, so you knowing about this particular stroke of good luck wouldn't make a difference."

There was silence as the miles whipped by as they digested it. Steve finally huffed a light laugh.

"If we had a tracker on you, I would've caught up with you two months ago," he said, offering a wry grin. "I had good news."

"What, you finally got a dame to agree to a date?"

It was odd how they were in a car with auto-everything and a HUD that belonged in science fiction, but it felt like it was still 1943. Steve gave him an indignant glare. "Bucky!"

"The Avengers finally managed to bring about world peace? Stark finally decided to convert to Buddhism? What?"

"You're ridiculous." Steve told him, but his lips betrayed him by quirking.

"You're more ridiculous than me." 

Steve's smile widened. "Your face is ridiculous."

"If you mean ridiculously handsome, then, yeah." It would be frightening how the words and the tone came to him without any conscious thought, except for the fact that it's always been this easy with Steve.

Habit, he had told Tony. Muscle memory, he had thought. He had a feeling that even if they wiped him again, now, put him in the car with Steve and he would still, somehow, know what to say and do to make the other man smile. 

Steve snorted. "You wish."

**

Another thing that he didn't know he knew - coming awake slowly and realizing that what he thought was a particularly heavy and twisted comforter was actually Steve spooned up behind him, cuddling like a teddy bear - was that Steve was an octopus when he sleeps, all twining arms and legs.

His mouth opened and words came before his brain went online. “If you drool in my hair, I will cut you.” 

“Mmm,” Steve breathed against the back of his neck, grumbling. “Shuddup, ‘m sleepin’.” 

**

There were no words when they stopped at the Grand Canyon for a day. Steve parked silently and they headed up via the shortest, steepest trail.

They quickly outpaced most of the other tourists and found a deserted lookout point. Steve sat on the rocks and drew while Bucky stared into the distance. Occasionally, Bucky picked up a stone and tossed it off the cliff, head cocked as he listened to it fall. 

It wasn’t what either of them would have imagined all those years ago when they had first dreamt of visiting, two Brooklyn boys with nothing and no one but each other. But even though it was seventy years past due, without any camping or mule rides - because there was no possible way Steve would’ve made the climb on foot, not back then - it was also oddly exactly what Steve thought it would be: him and Bucky, facing the gorge in the earth that was older than they were, than they ever will be, but doing it together.

Steve felt humbled by the majesty of the view, and grateful (so grateful) that he had the chance to see it, with Bucky beside him. Bucky didn’t share his opinion one way or the other, but his quiet was calm and peaceful instead of blank. 

They stayed until the sun went down and drove until it came up again before Steve started looking for a place to grab breakfast. 

**

Steve, bless his big dumb blond head, tried. In Boulder, he paid for a small two-room suite instead of a single room with two beds, joined by a shared bathroom. They hung out in the living room area, looking over maps and planning the next day's route for awhile with the television providing background noise. It was about midnight when they turned in.

The last six months on his own, on the run, wasn't all sunshine and roses. Sometimes the Soldier and his blankness, the clarity of the mission divorced from emotion, was only a breath away. Sometimes the memories-turned-nightmares would visit him weeks at a time, and he's learned to recognize the signs and avoid sleeping altogether. There was no arguing that something felt more...settled, with Steve here, but he didn't delude himself into thinking everything was now somehow magically fine.

Turned out, he didn't need to worry about his own nightmares.

The clock read 2:02 when he heard a choked scream through two doors and a bathroom. He tensed, the hand under his pillow automatically clenching around the hilt of his knife. He slid out of his bed, knife in the left hand and the right tucking a gun into his waistband. Silently, he padded to the door of the bathroom, ears straining for any additional sound.

If there was an assailant, he would've heard him or her again by now. As it was, there was only the sound of Steve lurching to his feet with a squeak of the bedsprings, which was followed by rapid footfalls. Before he could back away, Steve yanked the door open right in front of him.

Bucky jumped and bit off a curse. "Are you trying to get yourself stabbed, dumbass?!" he gritted, lowering the knife that had came up in his surprise. Steve was breathing hard, hair and eyes wild, whites showing. He looked terrified. "Shit, what's wrong?"

"Bucky." Steve said, low and strained, full of pain like Bucky had buried the blade in his stomach. " _Bucky_." The knife almost did end up in Steve when he lunged, graceless and desperate, and Bucky barely managed to move it out of the way, to the side because not even the surprise could make him drop it. Steve didn’t seem to care, didn’t even seem to notice, hands scrabbling: at his shoulder, down his arms, around his waist, ending in a hug so tight that even almost super-soldier ribs creaked under the pressure.

“Hey,” he said, helplessly, because he never could stand seeing Steve in pain. “Hey, you’re okay,” he told the blond head under his chin, because Steve was trying to become one with his sternum, physics be damned. “You’re okay.” There was a decorative side-table right by the wall, and he dropped the knife onto it before he could return the embrace, because stabbing Steve in the back by accident would just be icing on the cake right now. 

“I-I…” Steve sounded like he wasn’t crying only because through sheer force of will. Bucky made soothing noises and ran his hands up and down Steve’s back, as much as he could while being squeezed in a vice grip. “You _fell_. I couldn’t catch...”

 _Ah, hell_ , he thought. He knew intellectually about the fall, and there had been a few nightmares with nothing but howling winds whipping past his ears, stealing his breath. It always jolted him awake before the landing, and the terror of it always faded upon waking. Of all the things he wished he could get back, it was one of the things that Bucky was glad stayed a dream instead of becoming a full memory.

But that’d be a small consolation, because Steve could remember a map of Europe with Hydra bases based on a ten second glance. Steve remembered the fall, and was apparently still living with the memory of it.

The Soldier never learned how to give comfort, it was so out of the scope of his programming that it was laughable. Bucky, though...he let instinct take over, let his arms (even the metal one) hug back just as tightly, and told Steve what he wanted to hear: “Hey, hey, don’t do that,” he murmured. “I’m okay. I’m okay and you’re okay. We’re both fine.”

Steve’s shoulders were shaking, but Bucky knew he wouldn’t cry. The stubborn little shit never did learn that it would feel better to just let it all out. “No thanks to me.”

Well, some part of him knew that since a cathartic release via hideous and snotty sobbing wasn’t in the works (seriously, some people cried pretty but Steve was not one of them), he would have to try the next best thing: keep talking until Steve got distracted. “I swear to god, shut up about how it’s all your fault, Rogers.” Steve’s breath hitched and he thumped the blond on the back. “Don’t even try to apologize again, you’re like a broken record.”

Steve managed a pained laugh. It was hoarse and dry, because once again, Steve was a stubborn little shit. “...and when have you known me to do as I’m told?”

“For-fucking never,” Bucky sighed. “‘Steve, don’t go pickin’ fights with the mob and the drunks’, ‘Steve, don’t work three shifts at the store when you’ve got pneumonia’,” he thumped Steve on the back again. “‘Steve, don’t do anything stupid until I get back’.”

The blonde leaned on him, hard, but he managed to not stagger. He scrubbed a hand through Steve’s hair instead, making it stand up even more than it already was. “You took all the stupid with you.” He muttered into Bucky’s chest.

“I will shoot you.” Bucky threatened.

Steve’s voice was still thick, but the sound that emerged was a laugh. The stranglehold hug loosened just enough for one arm to move lower. “I was just gonna say...I guess that really is a gun in your pocket and you’re not happy to see me after all.”

Bucky groaned. Steve’s forearm was now making the butt of his gun dig into his back. “Oh, god, you’re awful. That’s awful. Leggo of me, you lug, I really _will_ shoot you.”

“You used to sleep with your rifle,” Steve said, nostalgic. He took a deep breath and stepped back. In the dim light, it was impossible to tell if his eyes were red, but it seemed like the worst was past. Distraction successful, even if it was completely by accident. “Sorry...I’m okay now.”

Bucky sighed and grabbed his knife. “You’re still a horrible liar.” Crying might have been better, but he could only fly by the seat of his pants for so long. He was Bucky Barnes, but not enough of him to offer more comforting words or closeness than what he just managed. The part of him that knew how would probably never come back.

But Steve didn’t go, Steve watched as he tucked the knife and gun back under the pillow, and finally said, “...can I stay?”

Maybe it’s fine, Bucky thought as he shuffled over to make room for Steve to crawl in. Because he can’t make himself offer, not anymore, but Steve knew enough to ask. 

**

“...is it just me?” Steve asked, frowning slightly at his bacon.

“No.” Bucky replied, pushing his eggs around on his plate. There had been an itch between his shoulder blades since Iowa, and they were almost out of Indiana. He had been watching the rear and side-view mirrors since days ago, but couldn’t spot their tail with certainty. “Actually, let me borrow your phone.”

“...Okay?” Steve looked puzzled but obediently handed the phone over after he unlocked it.

Everyone was listed under the Contacts section with their own names. Bucky snorted, “You are a walking security breach.” he sighed as he scrolled through the list and shot off a text. 

Steve took his phone back with an eyeroll. “...insult aside, why did you text Natasha a bunch of gibberish?”

“We’ll see.” Bucky answered grimly.

**

They left Tony’s very nice, very armored (and now, very dirty and muddy) SUV in the parking lot of one of the satellite Stark Industries offices in Virginia and walked to the train station.

He had his hood up and his metal hand gloved and tucked in a pocket as they waited on the platform. It was just after rush hour, so there was still small crowds standing around in clumps.

Steve jolted in his seat when a slender, feminine hand tapped his shoulder on the left, but there was no one there when he turned. Bucky laughed at him when Natasha sat down on his right, a messenger bag over one shoulder, thick horn-rimmed glasses, and hair a blond, curly mess.

“Getting rusty,” she said to him in her husky voice.

“Most people don’t stalk their friends.” Steve replied exasperatedly.

“We noticed, so you’re the one getting rusty.” Bucky pointed out. Natasha made an ‘eh, whatever’ gesture, so he asked, “how was Europe?”

“Not bad,” she replied, which could either mean it really wasn’t bad, or that she had successfully completed three missions in time to attend a nice cruise in the Caribbean. Though, “Edinburg, really? You couldn’t’ve sent the phone to Paris?”

“Like that would stop you,” Bucky snorted.

“True.” Natasha answered, a small smile on her lips. “Anyway, just wanted to check in since Tony’s going crazy in New York. He’s like a kid waiting for Christmas, I swear…” A train pulled into the station with its brakes shrieking. She waited until the doors hissed open and commuters started pouring out. “Gotta go, that’s my train.” 

They all stood up and she hugged Steve, giving him a peck on the cheek and whispering something in his ear. She and Bucky nodded to each other, and then she was gone.

“How did she even find us?” Steve wondered as he watched her go.

**

The car they were in was mostly deserted, with only one woman in a pantsuit holding onto the handrails close to the doors. It would be at least three connections and six hours before they’re even close to New York City.

“Hey,” Steve said quietly over the rattle of the windows and the rumble of the tracks, “I never told you the good news.”

“Hmm?” He felt that he should be feeling a lot more nervous than he was, given his bad experiences with trains. But that was a lifetime and an uncountable amount of lost memories ago, and mostly he just felt sleepy.

Steve bumped his shoulder. “Remember General dickhead?”

Six months and a reunion with Steve was balm for a lot of things, so Bucky didn’t feel more than a twinge of annoyance at the mention. Also, it was unexpectedly hilarious to hear Steve use the name Bucky gave the man. He turned his head just enough to give Steve a look. “What about him?”

“He’s not going to bother us anymore.”

He turned the words over and over in his head. Sure, he knew better than anyone else that Captain America was nowhere near as clean-cut and filled with light and purity as the myth, but that couldn’t possibly be what it sounded like. “...Steven Grant Rogers, did you kill him?”

Steve managed to keep a straight face and an innocent expression for about fifteen more seconds before he cracked with a snort-laugh that was utterly ridiculous sounding. “Your face…!”

“You’re such a little shit, I don’t know if I should be appalled or proud.” Bucky said, though mostly he was just relieved. Just because he had thought about putting a bullet in the man’s head a few times didn’t mean that it was something Steve should contemplate. “So, if you didn’t kill him, then what?”

“He was putting together this manhunt, this list of things that he thought you were responsible for, when none of that it was your fault…” Steve did what Bucky thought of fondly as the jaw-jut, aka the Captain America is Disapproving face.

Bucky left the argument about responsibility for later, much like the discussion on fault. “And?”

“I told him to lay off. And when he wouldn’t, I asked his boss to make him lay off.”

Bucky stared at Steve suspiciously. There was a punchline in there somewhere, he could tell. “And…?”

“And it worked.” Steve’s expression was solemn. “I know you’ve done everything you could to stay off the radar, even while you were sort of with us in New York...but I’m saying - if you ever want to stop being a ghost, James Buchanan Barnes is just as much of a hero to the nation as Steve Rogers is, and I won’t ever let anyone forget it.”

**

Tony Stark welcomed them back to the Tower with open arms. 

Okay, in reality, Tony Stark barely looked up from the quinjet guts he was working on when they made it back to the tower after surviving the New York subways and stopped by his workshop to let him know, as was polite. He spared only enough attention to make sad puppy eyes and grabby hands at Bucky’s metal arm, which made Steve say, “No, Tony.” very firmly.

It wasn’t first time Steve’s had to say it and it won’t be the last. Bucky found himself reluctantly amused - let Steve herd cats for awhile, maybe it’ll teach him to have sympathy for people trying to herd him.

It was a good thing Tony built Jarvis to take care of his host-ly duties because he was seriously lacking in that area. Or maybe it was a bad thing, because he had every intention to head back to one of his New York safe houses now that Steve was back with his team. But Jarvis was so solicitous that within half an hour, Bucky found himself in his own _suite_ (...what?) and then Avengers started coming out of the woodwork, presumably because Jarvis notified them that Steve was back. And since Steve was still sticking to him like glue, it meant that the Avengers were all hanging out in this suite. Which was apparently his.

Natasha let herself in, Thor and Bruce following in her wake. Tony apparently finished with the engine he was working on and was now getting grease all over his sofa, eyeing his metal arm covetously and having a mutually enjoyable snipe-fest that was at least 50% pop culture references with Steve.

Barton was the last one in, took one look at his face and grinned sympathetically. _Stark_ , he mouthed with a ‘what-can-you-do?’ shrug. Purposefully, he strode over to the kitchen area and made a beeline for the refrigerator. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he started rummaging through the freezer.

“Congratulations!” He said, holding up the spoils of his search: a bottle of vodka - really good vodka, judging from the label. “You’ve been adopted!”

“What?”

Barton clapped him on the shoulder as he headed back to the living room - lightly and telegraphed clearly from beginning to end, the man was nowhere near as dumb as he pretended to be - “Just go with it, man. Rent in New York ain’t cheap.”

Natasha started calling for the vodka in the living room, with Stark raising his voice and shouting for the whiskey that was supposedly in the pantry. Bucky went to the entryway just to give Steve his best _What the fuck????_ look and Steve looked embarrassed but not apologetic. He also had the gall to pat the spot on the sofa next to him in an invitation to sit.

 _No fucking way_ , Bucky mouthed back. Steve gave the only other seat with even remotely good sightlines a pointed glance: it was right next to Tony. Bucky didn’t need all of his memories to know that would be a bad idea, and the rest of the Avengers except Barton had already spread out on every other available surface. If he didn’t move soon - 

If he didn’t move soon, he can still just get out of the damn building, make for his safe house and leave Steve to his bunch of crazies. It’s what he _should_ do, it was all he planned to do - but no plan survived first contact with Steve.

The goddamned story of his life.

“You are a fucking pain in my ass,” he muttered as he sat down. 

Steve beamed at him. “Welcome home.”

**  
End

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I told myself, “You might not want to pull on that thread.” But alas, I pulled anyway. This hopefully wraps up all the stuff I didn’t manage to in Ch. 2 of I’ll shut down the city lights.
> 
> 2\. That said, the cuddling and bed sharing wasn’t actually a thread, it just kinda happened. Getting the cuddling in saved me from starting another WIP that’ll probably never get finished, so, go me?
> 
> 3\. Er, the actual thread notes were literally: pardons (that was what that oblique train conversation was about), Natasha Europe trip, tracker (which had three possible scenes and just never happened). And Steve’s Abandonment Issues sneaked in there and birthed the cuddling.
> 
> 4\. I actually googled the gun in your pocket quote. It’s from a movie in 1933, so I hopefully haven’t used it wrong. Ah, the things you learn while writing fic…
> 
> 5\. The working title was Steve and Bucky’s Excellent Adventures. That’s pretty much my working title for everything. :|b


End file.
